


before the april snow there was this

by yuliaplisetskaya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Depression, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sochi GPF, Viktor POV, although honestly i don't even know what purple prose constitutes, basically the 'viktor has had a crush on yuuri since before canon' fic, but i think i drenched it in too much purple prose, weather report as an attempt in allegory, what does that mean, who knows tbh english is my third language and i'm tired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 05:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuliaplisetskaya/pseuds/yuliaplisetskaya
Summary: The GPF is a mess of a rainy affair all dressed up in thunderstorms. As always, Viktor trods on.





	before the april snow there was this

The GPF is a mess of a rainy affair all dressed up in thunderstorms. As always, Viktor trods on.

 

The day Viktor touches down in Sochi is also the day an entire body of water descends upon him. It is familiar enough, in the way home soil that isn’t quite home soil blankets him in placation, for Viktor not to pay it any heed. He recognises this language, the whistle of this wind, the staccato of blades against this ice. He does not recognise his wrinkling fingertips.

 

Viktor goes on.

 

A hundred and two point five-seven is not record-breaking, but it’s enough, and it belies the shivers wracking Viktor’s bones. He smiles, finds he can’t taste the same sweetness spun from the only wheel he’s ever held for twenty years, continues to chew anyway. Happiness is manmade definition. He’s been a deity for eons.

 

A sliver of shaved GOE below him is Japan’s Ace, who’s now all bright eyes and murmured gratitudes at the Kiss and Cry. Viktor thinks about how this is Yuuri’s personal best score and idly wonders how that does not make much sense. Nothing makes much sense under grey skies. Viktor thinks about the warmth that radiates from Yuuri’s direction, rooted in his intrinsic being and his visible nerves both. Thinks about the way he’s always approached emotions like a distant ripple that’s rapidly stilling. Thinks about how the entire world may shatter and, when the day comes, he won’t even be able to feel his waterlogged legs running on autopilot, twizzle-threeturn-flip himself into landing.

 

So Viktor stands there, encased in his glass cage, and Yuuri stands there, encased by his climbing fever. Both of their lips tug tentatively at the corner: a sun afraid of rising from the wrong direction at the risk of an apocalypse.

 

Yuuri does not look at Viktor.

 

Viktor skates on.

 

* * *

 

At the podium Viktor is a tide looking to rise, but his moon is nowhere to be seen; hairline fractures manifest at the bed of his barren heart to replace the force that’s supposed to pitch him to a flood. He’s drowning in camera flashes and emptiness. The medal around his neck represents a round number, a solid sixth win, and that reminds Viktor of something else unpleasant.

 

_Sixth place_.

 

Viktor’s ears are ringing.

 

There is no sign of Yuuri as they wrap up the closing ceremony. Viktor toes off his soaked socks and does not hang them anywhere. They slip out of his mind, and Viktor slips his fingers through Makkachin’s soft fur, and everything else continues in silence. Waterfall taps a pattern against the windowpane. The carpet and the world turn into something Viktor has to wade through, slowly, Viktor wipes the last of his mascara, slowly, the smallest trace of pretend-crimson. Washes away what he doesn’t need of today. Careful so he doesn’t get rainwater on his face.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri Katsuki takes him sightseeing.

 

They’re in the middle of Navaginskaya, watching the last of the streetlights get extinguished by the endless downpour. Or maybe they’re not quite there, but that is the only place Viktor can remember visiting in Sochi during an equally cold night, and he’s too tired to think of anyplace else. He’s too tired, period. Yuuri keeps asking him for direction only to give up and drag Viktor around a pedestrian that’s supposed to be crowded.

 

Yet here they are--dripping, and the only ones so.

 

Under this rain Yuuri still glows; he’s a burning sun, Viktor knows, and from where Viktor is standing he can see his rays refracted into a rainbow with both ends spilling. Yuuri is so light on his feet, as always, and Viktor is a goner who can only imagine he understands how love feels like, as always. He watches as Yuuri soars and does a grand jete above water, the sharp edges of his body only barely touching the surface. Like this, he is a God Viktor wishes he could worship, and-- _what’s stopping him? What’s stopping him, really?_

 

“You’re bleeding,”

 

Yuuri stops abruptly, sparkling brown eyes wide open. Turns to look at the fingertips he’s wielding like spells cast, at the blue of wet paint slowly wearing off there. The magic isn’t broken--it can never be, with Yuuri, who looks like he’s descended from a constellation--but it almost wavers as Yuuri wrings his hands. “Oh. This is okay,”

 

“The weather causes this,” Viktor says. My weather causes this, Viktor does not say.

 

“No, really, I cry a lot, so this. Happens. A lot, too,” Sadness is an ugly colour on an angel. Yuuri shouldn’t laugh it off. But Viktor does not have a chance to get a word in before Yuuri surges forward and lifts him up, magenta seeping into his dress shirt and the tuck of his elbows. Viktor’s legs are dry for the first time in years. They’re fifty thousand feet up, and Yuuri looks like he’s flying with wings of molten gold, and he reiterates, once again, “See? Happens a lot,”

 

And Yuuri’s giggles are the stars Viktor longs to drink. So he smiles, lets the taste of the cotton candy whose pink is smeared across their cheeks melt on his tongue, and holds on tight.

 

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, breathless. The way Yuuri carries and shapes his name is so fond and adoring. There’s none of the American accent Viktor’s so used to hearing whenever Yuuri speaks; instead, his name breaks into four endearing syllables that fall easily tumbling out, _vi-ku-to-ru_ , “When we wake up, you’ll teach me how to fly. Yes?”

 

Viktor has never planned to take a God as a disciple. Then again, he has never planned to say no to anything Yuuri Katsuki tells him to do. So as soon as he seals their deal, the two of them drops the long way down, and oh, how Viktor cherishes every bruise, every scrape he gets from the contact with dry ground.

 

The day Viktor Nikiforov accepts he’s mortal, he ascends to heaven.

 

* * *

 

(The first time Viktor wakes up, it’s to a no longer leaking hotel room, strawberry-pink blending seamlessly with his platinum blonde hair. He does not wash it off. Lets it translate to sincere heart-shaped smiles that he holds close to his heart.

 

The second time Viktor wakes up, his heart stutters with every beat of a plea for help he unconsciously threw into what he thought was the void, only for the void to answer in the most beautiful way. He watches the video for the twentieth time and does not let himself hope, but lets himself have faith.

 

The third time Viktor wakes up, it’s when he presses a soft, fleeting kiss to the corner of Yuuri’s lips, just before they fall asleep, just after Yuuri tilts his head and returns the favour more firmly. Believes this is the breaking of the curse. Believes he deserves this happy ending, Yuuri and him both.)

**Author's Note:**

> so if you made it this far congratulations holy shit i can't even look myself in the eye. lol pls talk to me im lonely @ tumblr: yuliaplisetskaya


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